Kill All the Judges

by William Deverell

  There was food enough, even with Stoney and Dog, who, mirabile dictu, were on good behaviour. Gossip, election, and weather were the preferred topics, everyone laying off Arthur, as if picking up from his body language that the trial was a forbidden topic.

  He conversed little and listened less, proving himself not to be as attentive and amiable a host as the late Justice Whynet-Moir, whose spectre visited, his look of shock and horror as he began his headlong flight. Arthur imagined him getting a flashing glimpse of the last man to see him alive, prayed he hadn’t seen a broken nose and red suspenders.

  Arthur had become increasingly bothered by his little chat with Cud, who had almost seemed close to confessing, in his guarded what-if way, who’d seemed ready to believe Florenza had bent him to her will by witchcraft.

  Stealing a car, one can understand that, the Aston Martin was a temptation too compelling–Cud was always borrowing vehicles on the island. And yes, he had a small record for assaults–barroom scuffles, avenged insults and the like. But propelling someone to his certain death, a man who had caused him no great offence–that seemed not in his makeup. It was hard to accept that Flo’s urgent help me escape turned him into an obedient automaton.

  Fortunately, Florenza’s bowdlerized edition lacked those three damning words, and with Cud on the sidelines, the jury wouldn’t hear them. Yet Arthur worried they might read between the lines and conclude she was an accessory to murder, the prompter.

  Nicholas had got tipsy from a guest’s homemade hooch, was becoming voluble. “I like it here, makes you feel one with the earth. Milked a goat, what an experience.” They settled onto porch chairs. “Guess you’re wondering where Pamela is. She was going to come over, but…I guess she’s not hip to the country life. Things aren’t going well between her and me, Arthur, she’s kind of…I hate to say it…stick-in-the-mud.” He laughed. “That’s what Deborah used to call me.”

  With truth, sadly.

  “Nick thinks I was doing a lot better with Deborah, he never cottoned on to Pamela. I phoned Deb this afternoon. Woke her at three o’clock tomorrow morning, but she was okay about it. She said I should let the matter be, the thing with Nick and that…Baltic floozy. Too traumatic, she said, he’d forever resent me. She’s a teacher, I guess she knows these things. Plus Nick is devastated over pulling that stunt with the e-mails. Too complicated for me.” He called. “Nick, come here, join us.”

  He was coming up the steps, a slouch, a backwards-facing cap, a bottle of pop.

  “You better run off to bed,” Nicholas said. “Early ferry to Vancouver tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. I have to get something first.” He went within, reappeared in a few moments with his laptop, took a deep breath, shuffled over to Lavinia, and presented it to her. A parting gift. She balked at first; he insisted. She seemed about to kiss him on the cheek, but he whirled about, raced back to the porch, paused there.

  To Arthur: “I’m sorry I messed things up for Margaret.”

  “Can’t be undone,” Arthur said. “Don’t let it oppress you.”

  “I’ll try. Guess I won’t see you for a while, Grandpa. Kind of hard to say goodbye.” He choked. “I love you.” He raced inside.

  After the guests left, Arthur did tai chi on the grass. It had been a long time since he’d performed these graceful movements, and he felt the tension melt from him, leaving only melancholy from Nick’s sweet parting words. Afterwards, he wandered along the beach. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “hallowed in our law is the concept of reasonable doubt…”

  YEAR OF THE RAT

  Finally, an off-day for Wentworth, and after a lie-in during which he replayed, critiqued, and catalogued the boss’s duel with Florenza, he set out for the office on his Outback. It was a warm day in the winter’s dying, but he was blue. Arthur had started off brilliantly, but struggled at the end, like a great opera singer who could no longer reach the high notes. Where was the Pavarotti of the legendary sixties, of the late eighties, the golden decade after he went off the sauce?

  An even deeper concern: where was this trial was going? The jury wouldn’t hear from Cud. No defence evidence at all. Florenza LeGrand will have got the last word. She hadn’t been shy about being seen as spoiled and loose, and in fact was so candid about it she gained credibility. Arthur will have to pull it together for his speech.

  It was mid-morning as he dismounted. He was confounded to find Brian Pomeroy arguing with the scrawny born-again outside the Leap of Faith Prayer Centre.

  “Find refuge in the arms of Jesus.”

  “Sorry, I’m an idolater.”

  “Come home, my friend, come into the lap of Jesus.”

  “That’s my graven image.” He gestured at Gassy Jack, pigeon excreta dripping over his eyes. “Who are these people, Wentworth, why have they been allowed to defile our neighbourhood?”

  How did he know Wentworth was here? His back was to him. A madman’s sixth sense, or he’d seen Wentworth reflected in the plate glass.

  “Let Jesus enter your heart.”

  “Can he cure the insane? That’s my problem, pal, I’m an escapee from a nut house.” Brian grabbed Wentworth’s elbow, pulled him toward the door. “I’m not supposed to leave without an escort.” He looked quickly about. “I want you to keep an eye out for the Facilitator.”

  In the elevator, he asked, “Are you like the rest of them, Wentworth, do you think I’m crazy?”

  “You don’t seem so bad right now.”

  “I am free of him.”

  “Who?”

  “Hector Widgeon. I finished it.” He waggled a CD at Wentworth. “Needs an edit, that’s all.” His other hand held Widgeon’s how-to book, from which he recited in a machinelike voice: “‘The editing process. Now you may touch and fondle every word and phrase, enjoying the fruits of your sweat.’ Sounds like fucking.”

  “How does your book end?”

  “Widgeon did it. He kept a list of judges.”

  The regular receptionist was at her desk, but they found April Wu at a cubicle near Pomeroy’s office. “I’ve made eight appointments for you this week, Wentworth. Business is rolling in.” For the lawyer who leaked the affidavit–that was the sum total of his fame from this trial.

  Pomeroy handed her the disk. “I have to get back. Caroline’s coming. Where are the pages you did?”

  “On your desk, Brian.”

  “Caroline’s coming,” he repeated. “This afternoon.” He wandered off to the office.

  “He seems better,” April said. “You cut yourself.” It tingled where she touched Wentworth’s chin. She wasn’t wearing a bra today; you could see the breathtaking bumps of her nipples under that loose top.

  “How was your weekend?” he asked.

  “Lonely.”

  What was her scheme?

  Pomeroy roared from his office, slamming his door. “Pigeons! They’re flying and shitting all over my office!” He was terror-struck.

  He was definitely not better. April was on the phone, dialing for an ambulance maybe, or Hollyburn Hall.

  “Pigeons! Call the exterminator! I have pigeons!”

  He was frantic and loud, his arms flailing. A crowd gathered, Brovak, Augustina, secretaries, frightened clients. “They’ve come, they’ve finally come!”

  “Who let Pomeroy out?” Brovak yelled. “Anyone got a fucking straitjacket?” He pinned Pomeroy’s arms.

  April opened the office door. “See, Brian, there’s…”

  Pigeons. That’s what Wentworth saw from behind her, pigeons were flying and shitting all over. Three of them. A window was partly raised, and Wentworth threw it all the way up, and it took a while to shoo the birds out. The receptionist confessed. “I’m sorry, it was so stuffy in here.”

  “When one opens a window visitors will come,” April said, out of breath, her breasts dancing with the rise and fall of her chest, causing Wentworth weakness.

  Pomeroy was finally enticed back in. He stared down at his neat ring-bound man
uscript. Kill All the Judges, a wet, white turd leaking down the side.

  Cud came in at noon with a cheese and salami hero, crumpled the wrapper, and scored a three-pointer into the waste basket. “I’m going to open my heart, Woodward. Here’s the real deal.” He took a chomp out of his sandwich.

  Wentworth wasn’t holding out much hope for the real deal.

  “She wasn’t there.” Talking with his mouth full.

  “What?”

  “Florenza. She wasn’t there when I woke up. She wasn’t in the maid’s bedroom. This is going to be a little embarrassing.” Putting aside his sandwich, patting his pockets. “Do citizens have civil rights here or is the no-smoking bylaw taken seriously?”

  Wentworth didn’t want to cramp his style. He gave him a saucer, opened the fire escape window. He could take it now. Hadn’t had a bout of hiccups for three days.

  “I’m sort of half-asleep, and I reach out my arm for her, and she’s not there, nowhere, and I’m awake now and I hear this blood-curdling scream, followed by a thump. I’m still real hammered, okay, and I’m not sure if I’m hearing things, but that scream sounded like Whynet-Moir, like shrill. I jump up and I don’t see nothing at first, then there’s this guy, like this shadowy figure running down the stairs to the pool until he’s out of view. Don’t ask me for any description, maybe he had suspenders, I was too pie-eyed to get a lasting impression.”

  Wentworth made notes. He had his barriers up, but this had the ring of truth.

  “By this time I was halfway into my clothes, man, I was out the door pulling on my pants. I was spooked, even my short hairs were standing up. I must have grabbed my sock and boots, I don’t remember putting them on. The thing is, man, I panicked, I turned yellow. I have to admit it.”

  Wentworth could see it, his famous machismo deserting him, a humiliation. Real men don’t turn chicken and flap off in panic.

  “I admit my reaction was totally out of nature for me. Maybe I can shade it a bit in court because the guy left before I had a chance to pull myself together.”

  “He left.”

  “Yeah, I heard like a door slamming, a car door, and an engine, so he must’ve took off. But now I’m looking at another possible calamity. I instinctively knew some bad thing had happened, an axe murder, Christ knows, and I’m a person of interest, man, I’m the logical suspect. I’m not saying these were all coherent thoughts, it was like my subconscious was taking over, a flight impulse, whatever. I don’t remember getting into the Aston, I don’t remember none of that, I’d gone off the air.”

  Cud had cried wolf so often that Wentworth couldn’t tell if he was being bamboozled. Rubbed to a fine polish, could this account sway the jury? “I have to tell you, Cud, that Mr. Beauchamp thinks you’re better off not taking the stand. There are a number of reasons for this–”

  Cud coughed out smoke, put up a halt sign, coughed again. “Whoa. Say what? Hey, it’s my turn. The jury heard from all the liars, when do they hear some truth? That dame set me up real good, I half-believed her bullshit myself until sober second thought kicked in. I finally spill out my heart, and now you guys want to gag me?”

  Wentworth began a lecture about the presumption of innocence and how a defendant doesn’t have to prove innocence, doesn’t have to prove anything, but he could tell Cud wasn’t listening.

  “Hey, man, I can’t go through life with people suspecting I done it because I didn’t deny it on oath. I got fans out there, people who believe in me. No way, I got to go over your head on this one. Where’s Arthur?”

  Hustling votes in the rhubarbs, last Wentworth heard. He called his cell, his home, without response. He ushered Cud to the door. “Stay by your phone.”

  “You must try to forget me, I am wedded to the law.” But she’d already slipped her top over her head. He was helpless. There would be no escape…

  His phone twittered. He fumbled for it. His palms were sweaty, and the phone slid onto his takeout tortilla. “April? I mean, hello, Wentworth Chance here.”

  A gruff male voice. “You know where I can get ahold of your boss, counsellor?” Hank Chekoff, out of the blue. Wentworth was on alert.

  “Mainstreeting in the Cowichan Valley, I believe, and he’s not taking calls. What’s up?”

  “I guess I better talk to you. This is serious.” He suggested his favourite doughnut shop, a Tim Hortons in the Park Royal Mall. That was a haul, all the way to West Vancouver, but Chekoff couldn’t make it over the bridge, he had a heavy day at the office. So Wentworth put on his helmet and pedalled off to the SeaBus.

  As the boat planed across placid Burrard Inlet, he sat at the stern watching the spires shrink while fussing on the phone, trying in vain to locate Arthur. He was taut with apprehension, he couldn’t tell if Chekoff had good news or bad. Maybe Silent Shawn has confessed. Maybe Shiny Shoes has resurfaced as a suspect. Some crushing blow to the defence? The perp list had shrunk, the defence couldn’t afford to lose any more. Carlos was still a solid prospect, but Ebbe, Silent Shawn, Loobie, the Ottawa hit man, all were connected by the slimmest of threads.

  At the North Shore terminal, he jumped back on his bike and lit out for the mall, weaving his way through tied-up traffic. A call to April to say he’d be late getting back. “I’ll be here,” she said.

  Chekoff was at a table in the back, behind a newspaper. Coffee and a puffy doughnut shiny with glaze. Wentworth didn’t go to the counter, instead pulled a bottle of Zap from his pack.

  Chekoff put down the sports section “Watch the game last night? ’Nucks are on a roll.”

  As Wentworth tilted his Zap, a woman came over, the manager, he guessed. “Sir, can I ask if you bought that here?”

  “Take a powder,” said Chekoff, lifting his lapel, showing his badge. She backpedalled away. “Okay, you get a head start on this. This here disclosure should come through the prosecutors, but they’re all up at Whistler. This sucks, what I got to tell you, believe me. Watching this trial unfold, I figured Cud for a square guy, a typical working-class Joe but with talent. Faults, yeah, maybe a few too many beers on a Saturday night, punches some guy’s lights out, that’s normal. I had actually bet on Carlos for perp, pinned my hopes on him in fact, the fucking sleazebag.”

  He attacked his doughnut. Wentworth was holding his breath, waiting for the crippling blow.

  “DEA had eyes on him last fall, an undercover sting in L.A. Carlos had a nice business going there for a while, but he went off the radar somewhere around New Year’s. That’s when he showed up here, I guess, for a week of fun and frolic at Lighthouse Lane. The border’s a sieve, illegals pour across it, hell, he could’ve strolled over and back ten times.”

  Wentworth let out his breath, slumped. “Where was he on October 13, Hank?” End the suspense, damn it.

  Chekoff set a portable DVD player on the table. Fuzzy figures, a restaurant. Coming into focus, a table of five men in casual open-necked gear, and there was Carlos Espinoza, laughing at some joke. Voices couldn’t be made out, too much restaurant clatter.

  “Saturday, October 13. The Palm, it’s where the shitheads to the stars gather, lawyers, agents, managers, connections, dope suppliers. Takedown is today, right as we’re talking; it’ll be all over the TV. But they ain’t going to nick Carlos. Last trace we had, he was in Colombia.”

  “You just learned this?”

  “Yeah, they held on to it until the last minute. Didn’t want their case to be compromised, is the way they put it. They’re Americans. They’re secretive. They don’t tell us shit.”

  Wentworth was back on the SeaBus, staring forlornly out at the downtown edifices shining gold against the lowering sun. He’d taken a long run to Lighthouse Lane. What had he expected to see there? Shawn Hamilton’s car? A pickup full of potted plants, that’s all he saw, the gardener unloading them, a gnarly old guy, not a perp, not Lady Chatterley’s lover.

  Who was left? Cudworth Brown was who they had left. Cudworth Brown, who’d been jacking them around. Who didn’t deserve th
e sweat put into his case, who didn’t deserve Arthur Beauchamp. Maybe what he deserved was twenty to life.

  Still no response from Arthur to increasingly urgent calls. Meanwhile, a DEA agent was on his way from Los Angeles to give evidence. This case was starting to look like a big fat loser. Is this how Wentworth’s hero will end his career, with a thud? Wentworth Chance, archivist and co-counsel, may have to commit hara-kiri as a gesture of loyalty.

  Dodging rush hour traffic, he finally pulled up in front of the Leap of Faith Centre, a sandwich board proclaiming this was “Happy Hour with Pastor Blythe.” The cherry-cheeked proselytizer was on a platform with a mike, revving up two dozen wretches waiting for their soup. Wentworth slipped past their barker. “Have you given up hope, my friend?”

  Everyone had fled the office but April, supposedly lonely April, braless in tight skirt and loosely hanging top. The kind they just pull over their heads, no zippers, just a little tie in front.

  She looked up from a page of Brian’s composition. “Was he having an affair with his secretary?”

  “Roseanne, yeah. But his marriage was already kaput.” When he told her of the latest disaster, she smiled in sympathy and said, “Fortune seldom repeats, troubles never occur alone.” Then she asked him out to dinner to celebrate the year of the rat.

  He quivered as she took his arm, leading him down crowded Pender, Chinatown, its glitter and neon, the tourist restaurants and souvenir shops. He was thrilled by her closeness, the scent of her, of apple blossoms, but he felt awkward, still unsure of her intentions. She’d insisted on buying, wouldn’t go halfers, a modern woman. What did she want in return?

  She took him down a street of gingerbread houses and tidy narrow yards, one of them lit by a beckoning strand of yellow lights leading to a back entrance. “It’s not legally zoned but has good feng shui.” A mom-and-pop operation, Wentworth guessed, known to the favoured few. “I live three doors down.” Pointing to a two-storey frame house. “Basement suite. Even better feng shui. Maybe you will come over after for a glass of wine?”